Wildest Dream (Redfall Dream #4)

by B. B. Miller

  Thank you to Lauren and Greg at The Write Divas. We can never promise to eliminate every raised brow, but we’ll try!

  A million thanks to Stacey and Champagne Book Design for making our words and chapters beautiful.

  Thank you does not seem enough to the amazing community of authors and their support including Harper Bentley and Melanie Moreland.

  A world of thanks to the tireless bloggers, Twitterloves, Facebook friends and groups, Goodreads friends and review sites that support Indie authors.

  And thank you, the reader for taking this journey with us. We’ve poured our heart and soul into this series and we hope you have enjoyed it as much as we have. Until next time, rock on, friends. Rock on.

  Almost a decade ago, an American carnivore and a Canadian vegetarian bonded over their mutual love for shoes, the perfect cocktail, and swoon-worthy story telling.

  From her home in Portland, B.B. Miller spends her days with friends and family in search of the perfect pear martini.

  Leslie Carson lives in Ottawa, with her busy family and three cats. She’s at the rink so much, Zamboni drivers know her by name.

  Together, they enjoy visiting vineyards and distilleries, and writing about romantic adventures.

  They would love to hear from you.

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  Sneak Peek!

  Coming Soon ~ A new series with three standalone novels is coming your way soon. Wine, and spirits, and men—oh my! Here’s a sneak peek at book one in the Spirits Series.

  Chapter 1

  Brie

  WEDDINGS OFFICIALLY SUCK.

  Immediately, I’m swamped with best friend guilt. Of course this wedding doesn’t suck. It’s the most beautiful wedding in the history of weddings.

  My best friend, Becca Holton is finally married to her very own Prince Charming, Liam Swanson, in what can only be described as a picture-perfect wedding.

  Harry and Meghan? Please. A distant second.

  I mean, come on. We’re in Ireland at a 16th century honest-to-goodness castle. Five star luxury steeped in historic character.

  It’s picturesque and romantic. I dare say, magical. Part of Gaelic Irish royalty. It’s stone walls, original oil paintings, and carved wooden trusses, mixed with every modern convenience you could want.

  My suite (named after some Duke of something or other) is a dream. I had turn down service last night, complete with little chocolates that right now, not going to lie, I could eat seventeen pounds of. The four poster bed is a virtual cloud. I could fit my apartment back in California into the bathroom. I’m in the height of luxury. I’m not used to this level of elegance and grandeur.

  The nine course meal was a little over the top, but it’s what Becca and Liam wanted. Quenelle (whatever the hell that is) of Irish salmon and prawn leeks, free range/organic everything, goat cheese mousse, salted caramel pear tarte. It just went on and on, and sadly I could barely stomach any of it after what I saw in the darkened hallway.

  And the view? The grounds are something out of a fairy tale. Massive rock wall gardens that stretch for days, mature trees holding onto the secrets and ghosts of hundreds of years past. You can just see a harbor in the distance over the cliffs with massive sailboats and yachts bobbing in the sea, little white lights twinkling off the languid waves.

  The lake that sits in front of McGuire Castle is stocked with some kind of exotic fish that earned ohs and ahs from a few of the guests. Those fish are hungry. How do I know this? I’m currently ruining my peach organza bridesmaid’s dress as I wade through the middle of it, those fish nipping at my ankles.

  I curse, stubbing my toe on a rock. Probably a rock from 1745 that was placed here by some courtly night as a sign of his steadfast love for a princess.

  Love sucks.

  I hike the bottom of the full skirt up and take another swig from the green whiskey bottle I snagged from the bar, swaying slightly. The whiskey is produced here in some sort of time honored and highly kept secret handed down through generations. It simultaneously soothes and burns my throat going down. If only it could obliterate my memories with it.

  Glaring at one of the imposing stone towers in the distance, I wonder if they still have all the equipment needed for a beheading.

  It would serve Laird right—the lying, cheating, surfing bastard. I should have known better. There’s no way anyone with that wavy blond hair, those ocean blue eyes and that chiseled lean body could keep all that hotness to himself.

  I mean ‘Laird’? Seriously? His name alone should have given me a clue how this was going to end. Oh, but he loved to tell me and everyone within a five mile radius how he was named after famed, world renowned, legendary surfer Laird Hamilton.

  “Come on, Brie!” he used to say to me almost every single day. “Surfing is everything. Let’s share it together.” He’d give me a lopsided grin, shoving his hand through his insanely wild hair, his chest bronzed from endless hours of surfing. Many of those days, I didn’t make it to the beach. We spend the morning in bed until he’d disappear to the call of the ocean, his surfboard tucked under his arm. I wouldn’t see him again until midnight some days.

  To be fair, I did try surfing a few times. But no way, no how was surfing going to be something I was good at even with the surfing God himself helping me. There are only so many mouthfuls of ocean water you can swallow before you give up.

  Also, clearly surfing isn’t everything. No. Everything may now include Alison Swanson—sister of the groom and officially now on my black list—being fucked by Laird against the cold stone wall outside the master ballroom after the wedding ceremony, but it sure doesn’t include me. Not anymore.

  The vision of him pounding into her against that medieval wall is burned into my head. The fabric of her identical peach dress swirling around them caught me off guard when I went in search for Laird before dinner.

  Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. I mean, we did have the same dress on, and Laird wasn’t at the front of the line when they were handing out brain cells.

  But Alison’s funky raven dark hair and endless curves are the polar opposite to my long blond hair and below average height. Even Laird’s not that stupid to mistaken Alison for me.

  Maybe he’d be hit by a stray bullet during clay shooting tomorrow morning. I give my head a shake, making the darkened lake blur a bit. How much of this damn whiskey have I had? I lift the bottle, squinting to study the etched sailboat on the front.

  McGuire’s Irish Whiskey - Chapman Reserve - Batch 41. Holy, holy hell it’s strong. Strong and going down faster than it should. But I deserve it, damn it. I’ve supported stupid Laird and his dream of winning of the stupid US Open of Surfing in Huntington Beach for four years.

  Four years of him not having an actual job. Four years of me cheering him on, of carting his hotness around to every surfing competition on the coast of California in my beloved Jeep that somehow slowly became his.

  Four years of me finding myself stranded alone on the highway because he didn’t fill said Jeep up with gas. Four years of me trying to explain to him that Vulcan wasn’t a real planet.

  All of those quirky conversations that I loved at the time, now only serve to rev my anger up.

  I wonder how long this has been going on with Alison. We’ve been planning Becca’s wedding for a year, and Alison and Laird have been part of the process every step of the way. The number of times the two of them went off together on some wedding emergency errand makes my head hurts to think about.

  I thought it was sweet—Laird helping out and getting involved in the wedding. He would jump at the chance to go search for Irish themed decorations with Alison. What an idiot I am.

  More ankle biting as I stumble a bit on the rocky lake bottom. I shouldn’t be out here. Even in my slightly intoxicated haze I realize this. I should be having a ball at the ball. The band is fabulous, my bes
t friend is married, and they are about to send up a fireworks display to top the night off.

  But, I just couldn’t take any more. No more of Laird’s sideways glances to Alison when he thought I wasn’t looking. No more lovey-dovey kisses between every single other couple in attendance. Feeling over heated and betrayed, I bolted before the first dance. Ed Sheeran is amazing, don’t get me wrong, but even I have my limits.

  Stupid Laird and his seaweed dick. I can only hope that somewhere along the way, all that salt water has caused permanent shrinkage. I kick my leg out at the evil fish lurking below. God, how pathetic am I? There’s nothing wrong with Laird’s cock. It’s fine as these things go. Normal. Yes, I did come face-to-dick with some seaweed wrapped around it once, but isn’t that to be expected when he spends 80% of his time in the ocean? You know, when he’s not drilling a bridesmaid that’s not me?

  There’s not enough whiskey in the world for this feeling.